


Matriarchy

by Alexdoesthings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Banshee Lydia Martin, Full Shift Werewolves, King Derek Hale, King Sheriff Stilinski, Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Prince Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexdoesthings/pseuds/Alexdoesthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kings are seen as unfit to rule without a woman's presence and King Stilinski has had a hard time since his wife, Queen Claudia, passed away.  His tenuously hold on his lands and his peace is become more uncertain with each passing season, especially with his son, still unmarried, about to take over the throne.</p><p>Stiles, desperate to save his lands and ease his father's burden, decides, on the advice of an old friend, to break with tradition and attempt a union that the ten territories have not seen in over a hundred years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slow world building is slow...
> 
> Also, I changed the name of the fic... back. ANARCHY!!

Since his mother’s death, Stiles’s father had done his best to keep their humble territory running smoothly. It was difficult for him though. He had no way of being the ruler that Claudia had been. He was in charge of keeping the law of the land, that was all, she had been everything. He kept peace where he could and fought tooth and nail where he couldn't, holding on with all he had for his wife's memory and his son.

Stiles had just turned seventeen and was getting desperate as he watched the stress slowly wasting his father away. That's why he left left the castle that afternoon on his fastest horse, not telling anyone where he was going, to seek out an old friend who he had once, foolishly, believed would become his queen.

“I seek an audience with the lovely Lydia Martin,” he announced when he reached the Banshees’ caves.

It was an imposing place. The entrance was halfway down a slick cliff and the gaping hole in the rocks was probably thirty feet high and equally as wide. It was hard to get to and once there, the thick thorns guarding the entrance left only about a foot of space on the ledge to stand on. He’d heard rumors that those who were refused entrance by the Banshees were pushed off the cliff by these same thorns into the roiling sea below.

Lydia, when her powers had awakened, was sent here to train and link with the powers that converged in this spot. Or that was what he’d been told, Stiles wasn’t sure how much of the mumbo jumbo he believed. He thought it was more likely that the Banshees had set up shop here because it was creepy and people would stop hunting them down and locking them up if they were scary and hard to reach. His world had become very strange though since Scott had been bitten and they’d found out about a whole hidden world within their own, so he couldn’t discount it completely.

The heavily thorn laden vines at the dark entrance parted enough to allow him passage. He stepped through gingerly, keeping his head low. He counted it as a victory that, when he finally reached the antechamber, he only sustained a few scratches. The only light here came through the vines and those shafts of light were few and far between. By them though, Stiles could just barely make out the carvings on the walls. In full light he knew they would be brightly colored and lovely to behold but in this half-light they looked menacing with their many swirling symbols and fanged beasts.

He had come to see Lydia twice before now, once when she had first become a Banshee and again when Scott had left to be trained by the wolves of the north. He had been warned both times not to come back unless he had something dire to ask after.

He unclasped his sword from his belt and set it against the vines as he’d been instructed to do both times before. The vines wrapped around the weapon’s sheath and pulled it in. It was chilling to watch the vines move as though they had conscious thought but he did not stare long, not wanting to think of how vulnerable he was now without it. For unknown reasons, only the sword seemed to bother the Banshee because they allowed him to keep the knives stashed in his boots, up his sleeve, and along his belt.

He waited, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, feeling stares all around him. It took him a few minutes to pick out over the rush of the ocean below, but he could hear whispering coming from within the caves. It grated on his self-control not to go exploring deeper. No one but the Banshee knew how deep the caves went or what they looked like beyond this point. He had heard rumors of all kinds but no two stories were alike. He couldn’t imagine Lydia staying in some place dark, cold, and without her creature comforts though, so he tended to believe that it was a sight to behold, a true wonder of the ten territories.

“One might think you had a death wish with how often you venture into the Banshee caves,” Lydia’s voice echoed off the walls in her usual flippant tones.

“Last time I checked you were the heralds of death, not the bringers of it,” Stiles shot back, smiling into the dark as her figure emerged among the shadows.

As she got closer into the light he could see her sharp green eyes surveying him. Her shoulders were swathed in a grey cloak over her green dress. Her strawberry blond curls cascaded down her shoulders and, though he had long given up on the idea of marrying her, Lydia’s beauty never failed to catch him off guard for a moment.

She stopped in front of him and, as it always had, her stance suggested she was completely in control of him, the room, and possibly the world. He bowed to her in the customary way that one does to a woman of high power. This was technically not warranted to a Banshee but Stiles held Lydia in the highest regard.

“You haven’t come on a social visit this time,” she stated, not needing to ask, prompting him to speak with a flick of her wrist.

Stiles was not surprised that Lydia knew exactly what he’d come to ask after. She had somehow never truly lost contact with the gossip of the territories, be that through her power or other means he didn’t know. He straightened and answered, seriously, “No, I came to ask your advice.”

“You came to ask the harbinger of death about your love life,” she asked, amused.

Stiles opened his mouth to amend this impression but she held up a hand to stop him and said, almost impatiently, “I know you’re asking about the fate of your lands, but at this point they are one and the same.”

Stiles eyes focused on a smooth patch of stone to the left of her foot, feeling his stomach plummet at this pronouncement. He had hoped she would have a different answer for him. He admitted, helplessly, “I can’t let my father continue like this, it will kill him. But the nearest princess of marrying age is far to the-”

“That’s why you’ve come to me,” Lydia interrupted again. It was a simple statement of fact as though seeking her advice was the only course of action he could logically take and the quirk to her lips suggesting, truthfully, at her brilliance.

She swept past him toward the thorns and held her hand before the vines. They moved at her command and produced his sword. He waited as she held it in her hands before turning to him and saying, “Last time I saw you with this, you could barely hold it and its responsibilities. But you have come to accept your burden since then,” she paused stroking the leather nostalgically before her eyes sharpened on him and she continued in clipped tones, “You’re strong enough not to surrender your territory to a queen that will make you subservient to her. You have another option, Stiles. I suggest you take it.”

She held his sword out to him in an obvious dismissal as the vines behind her opened to reveal the sea and lit her from behind like some heavenly being. He watched her for a second, not entirely certain what she meant. She shook the weapon impatiently at him and he hesitantly took back the heavy metal secure in its leather holdings.

He strapped it to his belt, trying to buy time as he asked for clarification, “What other option?”

Lydia sighed impatiently as she said, “Honestly Stiles, if I have to spell it out for you then you truly are lost.”

Stiles straightened stubbornly, holding his ground as he said, “I didn’t come to you for riddles, Lydia.”

Her eyes softened a little as though she could see his desperation and his fear as plain as day. “You aren’t stupid Stiles,” she said and it was a lot coming from her, “You know a prince has two options.”

She left him to sort through her words and watched in some satisfaction as his eyes lit up with the answer. He looked so hopeful for a moment but then his face fell as he said, “But there’s only one house who would even consider it and there’s no way they’d-”

“You underestimate yourself, Stiles,” she interrupted with an impatient but fond shake of her head. She crossed around behind him and pushed him toward the parted thorns as she ordered, “Now get out and don’t come back unless you’ve got a wedding invitation in your hand.”

Stiles stumbled and almost tumbled off the cliff as he took several steps to steady himself. He turned back to look at her just as the vines were closing around her knowing look.

She called her parting words eerily over the ocean and through the barrier of thorns, “You will make a great king, if the wolves don’t eat you first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out on Tumblr [here](http://alexdoesthings.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

The Hales were known far and wide as one of the most powerful military forces. Their soldiers, it was said, were almost supernatural in their strength and incorruptibly loyal. Their land and people prospered well under the rule of Queen Talia, who was said to be both fair and just. But, about a decade ago, tragedy struck the land as the castle went up in flames with most of the family inside. The Argents, a powerful clan of hunters from the north, had taken refuge on Hale land not long before the fire claimed all but three of the Hale line.

Peter Hale who had been horribly scarred by the fire, was said to have lost his mind and attacked Laura, who had become Queen with the passing of her mother, when she refused to take swift and violent action against the Argents. He took the crown from his niece’s mangled body and slaughtered most of the hunters until his nephew Derek and Chris Argent, one of the last of his name, came to a tenuous truce in order to defeat the bloodthirsty King Peter and prevent more senseless bloodshed. Derek put an end to his uncle in the decisive battle and took up the burden of ruling that he was never meant to carry.

Even after all this time, the land felt saturated with blood and tears as Stiles rode past the border. The once grand Hale castle stood like a blackened ghost looming on the horizon. It was an eerie, broken state but Lydia was not wrong, their houses combined would create a prosperous and strong land once more.

Derek’s strength lay almost solely in the militaristic and living under strict military rule for so long had made the people jaded and suspicious. Order was kept but the people needed more than just a strong sword and shield. This is where Stiles could be of great use. He was adept at handling trade and the problems of daily life among the people. He could provide the gentler touch that was so lacking in this land of so much heart break.

It had been weeks of negotiation, first with his father to consider the idea and then with Derek in the slow medium of written post. Stiles was proud of his persuasion skills as he spent many nights pouring over documents about both lands to carefully craft his request. There had not been a union of kings in almost a century and some looked dubiously on the very idea, not truly believing kings could rule without the supervision of a queen.

The preliminary discussions had gone well and Stiles had been invited to further discussions in Hale territory. He was met and escorted by a group of Derek’s soldiers to a military fortress that had been converted to the territory’s base of operation since the fire. It was minimal and impersonal, the halls cold, the people tense and taciturn. It was a temporary solution that had become far too permanent and it felt, much like the rest of the land, to be waiting for the clock to reset or the dreamer to wake from a nightmare.

Derek was awaiting him in what looked like a planning room with a long table and walls lined with maps and charts. He was dismissing one of his officers when the door opened.

Derek struck an impressive figure and Stiles could see why armies trembled before him. He had been raised to be a military commander, not a King, and it showed in his unyielding, authoritative stance. His eyes were sharp and, even without his battle armor, he looked like he could take on half a battalion on his own. His shoulders were tense as he nodded his gratitude at the escorts and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When they had left and shut the door behind them, he turned to look at Stiles, who found himself standing straighter.

“Welcome,” Derek said, but it was obvious he did not share the sentiment in his words.

Stiles had to remind himself this was for his father and his people and that he needed to keep his tongue civil for their sake. He nodded in acceptance of the words despite their insincerity and said formally, though not using titles, as was customary when speaking with one of equal rank, “Derek Hale, I come with an unorthodox request-”

“I read your letter,” Derek interrupted curtly, “And this kind of arrangement has not been done in over a hundred years, why are you suggesting it now?”

Stiles allowed himself to take a breath and remain calm as he gripped his wrist behind his back. If Derek had been in correspondence with him, as he said, then he already knew the answer to that so he didn’t see the point of this inquiry. He managed to answer with much more composure than he’d expected as he repeated the words he’d written, “It would make the most sense for both our lands. Your military strength would stabilize our border and our trade routes would bring many opportunities for your people.”

Derek surveyed him with guarded eyes before he asked, “How do you personally benefit from this?”

Stiles suddenly understood better how Derek’s mind worked. Derek did not trust others. He believed in a traitor around every corner and shielded himself from the world with great steel walls around his heart that he had probably not relaxed since the death of his family. In a morbid way, it made sense.

Stiles would like to deny that there was any selfishness in this proposal, but this wasn’t entirely true. Knowing now he would get nowhere with Derek if he wasn’t completely honest with him, Stiles dropped the political neutrality he’d had driven into his head since childhood. It was freeing but it left him feeling raw and vulnerable as he looked away and said, “My father is almost ready to give up the crown and, as his only heir, it is my duty to marry but,” he met Derek’s eyes again, his determination blazing, “the last thing in the world I want is to give my mother’s lands to some power hungry queen from a far flung realm who would cannibalize it and give me no say in its running. I need an equal, not an oppressor.”

Stiles found his chest heaving and his heart pounding with his fervor. He had not said those exact words aloud to anyone but they were the truth at the edge of every carefully tailored phrase he’d uttered before this.

Derek looked him up and down for a moment and Stiles could not read the look in his eyes. He did not allow his determination to waver under the scrutiny though. This was his last hope and he would not give it up easily.

"And how do you imagine my benefit," Derek asked with something in his tone Stiles did not understand.

Stiles frowned at him as he puzzled through the words, not sure exactly what he was being asked. Derek watched him with keen eyes and Stiles felt like the answer to this was the final stone on a currently balanced scale.

"I don't know that I understand your question," he said carefully, hoping for clarification.

Seeming to have gathered what he wanted from him, Derek turned his back impatiently on Stiles and rested his weight on his palms as he leaned over the map on the table once more. Stiles felt his fists clenching at Derek’s blatant dismissal, of both his person and his proposal. Stiles walked agitatedly along the edge of the room, always keeping the same amount of distance between the two of them as he rounded the table slowly.

“Your strength and riches would increase tenfold,” he pointed out, trying to appeal to Derek’s more selfish side.

Derek did not react to that beyond a subtle shoulder movement as though he was brushing the words off like they were inconsequential. Stiles almost felt relieved that Derek had not shown a greedy streak at his words. He started looking closer trying to find why this option appealed to Derek at all if not for power and riches. The more he looked at the now quiet Hale the more obvious it became to him. He was almost disappointed that he hadn’t noticed earlier when Derek had moved straight into assessing Stiles’s motives. It was in the set of his shoulders and the defensive, hunted look in his eyes, Derek was lonely. He had taken the throne at a young age and it was no secret that he had found no allies in his court and his closest friends were his soldiers with whom he held merely professional relations.

Stiles found his own shoulders relaxing as he realized it. Derek’s loneliness was well hidden, but Stiles had spent long enough looking in the mirror at empty eyes after Scott departed to know the signs. The life of a royal was not one typically filled with such closeness.

He stopped directly across the table from Derek and leaned toward him. Though Derek was doing a fantastic job of pretending to ignore Stiles’s presence, he knew from the subtle shift in his posture that Derek was paying attention.

"More importantly," he said the words carefully, almost casually, but the weight of them lay heavy under the surface, “You would not have to rule alone anymore.”

Derek was quiet for so long Stiles almost thought he hadn’t heard him. He almost started speaking again when Derek said, “They say the consortiums of kings are cursed.” He said it casually enough but there was something dark under the words.

Stiles wasn’t certain how Derek wanted him to answer that, but it could not be said that he’d ever left something unanswered and he didn’t falter now. He asked, with a hint of dark humor, “Hale of the bloodied crown is worried about being cursed?”

A humorless laugh fell from Derek’s lips before he straightened with dark eyes and said, “It seems I have nothing to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out on Tumblr [here](http://alexdoesthings.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles was given a room a few doors down from Derek’s. It wasn’t grand but the sheets were clean and the bed was soft and warm and that was all Stiles cared about anyway. The comfortable, welcoming little room was a refreshing, stark contrast to every other aspect of the territory and people he’d met so far in the Hale territory. Derek’s demeanor seemed to have seeped into every aspect of life here and his first impression was proven to be, not only right, but worse than he’d first thought. The knights did not even glance at him and the servants moved through the halls like mice on quiet feet with darting eyes that never stayed in any one place long. When he attempted to engage anyone in conversation, they treated him with the cold formality of his rank and said as little as possible before going on their way.

Stiles tried not to let it get him, he knew he had a lot of work to do because if he planned to get anything done, he needed the support of the people. Derek got it through his strict rule and the respect he’d earned in battle. Stiles had been taught in the ways of combat but his specialty had always lay in the planning of attack, not the fighting of it. He needed to earn support in his own way.

Stiles finally decided that he was not going to get anything done if he didn’t see anything of the territory. As they hadn’t yet announced their plans to the people, it was the prefect chance to meet them while he was still just another anonymous traveler. Stiles’s wilder streak, which his father always lamented, wanted to sneak out but he knew that could be detrimental to their tentative pact. So he bit his pride and went to Derek to request he be allowed to visit the market.

Derek insisted that Stiles go with an escort of two knights. Stiles finally conceded the point after having argued Derek down from his originally planned six. As soon as Stiles got close to the town however, he knew he would see nothing of life in Hale land, even dressed as plainly as he was, with the two stone faced guards flanking him. He decided to lose them almost before he’d reached the edge of town.

It wasn’t easy, Derek had trained his men well, but Stiles had spent most of his life dodging his father and his men. He lost them through a series of alleys and finally by ducking through the back of a bakery. He set a gold piece on the counter with a finger to his lips and grabbed a cake with a wink before strolling out the front of the shop and into the heavily crowded market.

Free at last to walk among the people, Stiles purchased a plump melon to go with his cake and examined the wares for sale. The people in Derek’s land were skilled metal craftsmen. Many of the booths held weapons but others had exquisite jewelry and protective amulets. The Hale triskele adorned most everything and wolves were features prominently.

“Excuse me,” Stiles asked one of the merchants, an older woman with a kind face who sold mostly small wolf figurines with bright gold, blue, and red eyes made of small inlaid jewels.

“How can I help you,” the stooped woman asked, clasping her hands.

Stiles held up one of the wolves with the red eyes, which seemed to be the most popular, and said, “I’m not familiar with the customs of this land yet. Why are you selling these?”

“The wolves are our sworn protectors,” she said, her eyes lighting up with the passion of a younger woman as she began her tale, “It is said that the first Queen Hale was given the power of a wolf by moonlight and used it in the great blood tide to lead her armies to victory. Since then, the Hales have passed the wolf’s gift through the generations in order to protect the people. Our own Queen Talia was said to be so powerful that she herself would turn to a wolf when the moon was full and howl to remind us that we were safe from harm,” she became sad as she said the next part as though she had forgotten, for a moment, Talia’s fate, “But the howling has become so hollow these past years that it brings only loneliness.”

“Still filling peoples' heads with that nonsense? You'll run us all out of business with that madness,” the fruit merchant beside her booth cackled.

The elder woman shot him a glare and fired back, in a voice that suggested they’d had this argument many times, “That 'madness' is our history and you’re the one only running anyone out of business, still selling those smelly…” But Stiles stopped paying attention to them at that point.

Stiles contemplated the wolf figurine. He knew, because of Scott, that werewolves existed, but he had not considered that they were so close at hand as the Hales. It wasn’t as though he could simply ask Derek about it though. Knowledge of such beings was a closely guarded secret and merely fanciful whispers among the commoners as far as most people, like the fruit merchant, were concerned. He couldn’t imagine Derek being forthright with it even if he asked. He set the wolf down and paid instead for a handsome dagger she had hanging beside them emblazoned with the triskele on the blade near the handle with the three jewels at the center of each swirl.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles had been elbow deep in paperwork from Derek's territory for what felt like weeks, learning all that he could about it. He would prefer to ask Derek, as the documents were dry reads and occasionally blackened, but Derek was a very busy man. Carving out time every day to help Stiles come up with a working contract for their consortium while he had a territory to run wasn't something he could do. Instead, Derek had told him to draw up the contract and bring it to him for approval.

It was a lot more work than he'd expected it to be as he couldn't just copy a normal marriage contract. A consortium of Kings needed full equality to operate well and that was easier said than done. He had to refrain from being too optimistic or idealistic, but being too pragmatic made the agreement stiff and unwieldy. He wished he could consult Lydia, but she'd made it clear that he was to do this part on his own.

His head full of thoughts, Stiles found it hard to sleep and finally gave into the insistent itch to get up and stretch his legs. He took a random turn out of his room and down a few corridors, no destination in mind. His steps echoed through the dark, mostly barren halls lit only by the light of the full moon filtering in from slits in the walls high above. He began to feel restless and closed in and walked until he found an exit. The heavy wooden door opened onto a garden just off the north edge of the fortress. It was small but well maintained with small paths and all manner of plant life.

Stiles’s eyes were caught by a small pond with fish darting about whose scales glittered in the pale silver light the moon cast. He sat on a bench beside it to watch, glad for the change in scenery. He was already missing his father and he’d never appreciated the castle’s decorator more. He sighed, his fingers idly fiddling with a stalk of grass hanging over the bench next to his hand.

He caught a flash of red in his periphery and raised his head to see a large black wolf watching him from the end of the bench. He froze, eyes locked on the unnatural red glow of its eyes. His father’s voice whispered in his ear to reach for his knife, but, for some reason, he didn’t feel afraid.

“If you try to eat me,” Stiles warned it, “I will have to kill you.”

The wolf stared at him for a moment and Stiles could have sworn his comment amused it. Stiles felt oddly as though he’d passed some test as it set its front paws deliberately on the stone and leapt easily onto the bench, making Stiles shrink back toward the opposite edge. It settled eerily beside him, its head hung just above his own, and stared into the pond like Stiles was no threat to it whatsoever.

He relaxed slowly, sitting back up as he watched it with wary eyes born of years of warnings about how dangerous these creatures were. He could see the muscles under its pelt, built for running and taking down prey with ease, and the hint of fangs gleaming in the moonlight just under its top lip. It sent a shiver up his spine to think about but the wolf didn’t seem hungry at the moment.

“If you’re a sign, I’m not sure what you’re supposed to mean,” Stiles told it. Its ears twitched at the words and Stiles felt, absurdly, that it understood him.

Stiles sighed and settled his weight behind him on his hands. It said a lot about his life recently that he didn’t find his current predicament to be very strange. He was staring up at the moon going over his life choices when he felt eyes on him again. He turned and met the wolf’s glowing red eyes watching him curiously. They were intelligent and sharp but there was a gentleness to them that caught him off guard.

“What,” he asked it, “You’re the one who came to sit on my bench.”

The wolf ducked its head and bumped it into his shoulder. Stiles grunted and sat up, frowning at the wolf. He opened his mouth to speak when it ducked its head and ran its muzzle across his neck. His breath hitched as he felt its cold nose slide across the vulnerable skin followed by soft, warm fur. Its ear brushed his chin where his mouth was hanging partially open, words forgotten. It nuzzled in closer and he found his eyes closing as his head tilting back further, the sensation warming his whole body.

Suddenly realizing what he was doing, Stiles caught his breath and put both hands on the wolf’s head, pushing it away. He ducked his chin down, the feeling of its fur still ghosting across his neck.

“Can you not,” Stiles asked, his voice higher than he meant it to be, “There is only so much weird I can take in one night.”

The wolf looked at him, unimpressed, and butted its head into Stiles’s forehead. Stiles cursed under his breath and rubbed at the spot, one hand still tangled in the wolf’s fur. Stiles dug his fingers into its pelt to keep his head from spinning. It was coarse on top but soft the deeper his fingers dug until he reached warm skin.

The wolf leaned its side into Stiles’s. He almost didn't catch himself, taken aback by the sudden weight against him. He managed it though, pushing back against the creature until they were holding each other up. He gave the wolf a borderline annoyed look, which it returned as though he were at fault for not expecting this. Stiles couldn't really complain though, the night had been unseasonably cool and the wolf's fur was warm so close to the source. Stiles sighed and tried not to think that the only friend he seemed to have made in Hale land so far was an eccentric wolf.

"This is probably the strangest land I've ever been in," he told it matter of factly as he settled himself more comfortably against the wolf's side, "and I've been inside the Banshee caves."

The wolf made a sound that might have indicated amusement or disbelief but Stiles couldn't be sure, not versed in the subtleties of wolf communication. He glanced at it and found it looking out into the pool with its head tilted toward him in a calculated, mild interest. It was a familiar look but he couldn't think why. The absurdity of his situation was making the stress of his day fall away and he found exhaustion wrapping around him.

"My mom used to tell me stories about wolves,” Stiles murmured absently, letting his thoughts drift from his mouth as he settled his head comfortably on its shoulder, “When she was young, she’d lived in the wild lands and she would watch them hunt in the valley in the summer. She said they taught her how to be graceful and strike swiftly when she saw an opening,” he closed his eyes as he admitted quietly, “I miss her.”

Stiles felt the wolf turn its head to look at him, like it understood what he was saying right down to the sharp edge of loss under the words. He opened his eyes to look at it. It should have been a terrifying sight with that blazing red but those eyes were oddly soft and intelligent.

It leaned down and gently nuzzled Stiles's head, settling its cheek there for a long moment. The affectionate gesture was comforting and Stiles closed his eyes again, his thoughts clearing. The wolf's presence made him feel safe, though it shouldn't have.

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but Stiles was roused by the soft creak of hinges and a gentle swaying that reminded him of a ship. He turned his head away from the warmth beside him and blinked his eyes open a fraction. He saw his bed looming below him and a second later he was deposited into it softly. He was so warm and comfortable that all he wanted was to go back to sleep but he turned his head and squinted at the person who'd been carrying him. Even in the dark, he thought he recognized the outline.

"Derek," he asked sleepily.

"Don't sleep in the garden," Derek chastised him softly as he pulled the blanket up to cover Stiles.

Stiles was too out of it to tell for sure if he had felt Derek softly run his hand over his hair or if he'd dreamed all of it.


	5. Chapter 5

He didn't like to admit it to himself but he always hoped to catch a glimpse of the black wolf. Even if it was broad daylight in the middle of the compound he would turn his head fast enough to leave it aching when he spotted a red glow. Though he had strong suspicions that this wolf was actually a werewolf, he didn't have any concrete evidence for his idea. The only werewolf he knew, Scott, could not transform into a full wolf, but he hadn't had long with his friend after he was bitten to observe him and Scott was new at it.

He supposed it could have just been an intelligent wolf as he hadn't had much experience with them either. He'd heard howls from the woods on a few occasions, both back home and in Hale territory, but he hadn't seen their source and no one from the market had seen a red eyed wolf out there in recent memory. He'd started to wonder if he'd dreamed it after hearing the story of the first Hale.

Stiles had plenty to keep him occupied though so he didn’t get to spare much thought to the wolf. The afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the slit windows high above in the hall as Stiles carried his work to a new location. He'd grown tired of the sound of swords as background noise and was finding that walking with his papers helped him detangle his thoughts.

“Alright, what have you done to him,” Erica, one of Derek's elite knights, asked surprising Stiles as she grabbed his shoulder and fell into step beside him. The pages in his hands almost spilled but he managed to keep them together in a messy pile as they slid around each other. He hadn't even noticed her walk up behind him, though the hall was cavernous and echoed loudly.

“Done to who,” Stiles asked, annoyed, his head still in the numbers.

“Our king,” she said, like he was being slow on purpose.

Stiles gave her a quizzical look that clearly said he no idea what she was talking about. She sighed, put out, like he’d refused her a shiny new toy.

"You haven't noticed," she asked like he had the intellectual capacity of a rock.

“Obviously not," Stiles said impatiently, not enjoying her need to flaunt her perceived superiority over him or the fact that she knew Derek better.

He'd hardly had the chance to interact with Derek since arriving. When he wasn't pouring over information in his planning room or dealing with matters of state, he was training with his soldiers. Stiles had watched them in morbid fascination once. Derek didn't call it off until most of them were in the dirt, too tired to carry on, though he still looked like he could have gone a few more rounds before he was spent. The few times he'd talked with Derek had been purely business over a handful of meals. There Derek kept his words as quick and sharp as his sword and left as soon as his food was gone to attend to business elsewhere. So when he looked at Erica like she was delusional, he meant it.

"Fine, pretend like you don't know," she said, mildly aggravated but also with a dangerous smile that did not bode well.

He stopped in his tracks and turned fully to face her. She mirrored him, unfazed as he glared at her. “If you have something to say then say it or be gone,” he commanded curly, done with this matter and nearly out of courtesy.

She tilted her head and gave him a new look, mildly surprised by his boldness and reassessing him. Then she took a challenging step into his space. He did not back down though he felt his shoulders tensing and desperately wished he could put down his papers and face her with both hands free.

“I owe everything to Derek. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead by now or wishing I was,” she explained as her stomach pressed into the papers in his arms and she leaned in closer.

Her smile was full of acid as she stopped with only a breath of air between them. He felt the knife in his sleeve bump against his inner wrist as he shifted uncomfortably. He figured he might be able to get it out if she tried anything. Then he realized this was ridiculous and straightened his spine, reminding himself he would be her king in due time. He forced himself to keep from reacting as she casually grabbed his shoulder with a hand that was stronger than it should have been.

A threat overlaid her words with a subtlety that reminded him of court as her fingers tightened enough to bruise, “I’m just concerned because, if he gets hurt, who knows what could happen.”

The implication was clear and her eyes had a glint to them that suggested at all the things she would do to him if he stepped out of line. Though it chilled him, this display also angered him. As a prince, he’d had a lifetime of being looked down on and it boiled his blood that she thought he was some weakling who would be frightened by this. He grit his teeth and that sharp tongue his father had tried so hard to soften, threw back at her, “I had more respect for Derek, I thought he taught his dogs better manners.”

Before she could react to the insult he took a step back and jerked his shoulder from her grasp. He glared at her one last time before turning decisively on his heel and walking away, dismissing her and feeling like he'd earned something from this.

He rounded the corner to the sound of her laugh as she said, “Maybe you will make a halfway decent king after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out on Tumblr [here](http://alexdoesthings.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles’s favorite part of the week became the few days he could make it to market. It was charming despite being the most subdued market he’d ever visited. If he could blend into the background, there was interesting talk to be heard, but the people were wary of strangers. It certainly didn’t help that Stiles was shrouded in mystery, as he and Derek had not announced their plans publically yet, and constantly pursued by two of Derek’s soldiers.

As far as he knew, his escorts had yet to tell Derek that they could not keep up with him at market. He lost them fast and kept them off by moving through the crowd in his plain clothes. The people moved aside for the fully uniformed knights, but there was always a few seconds of chaos when people realized they were there. Stiles took full advantage of this. Being young and nonthreatening had even earned him a few accomplices in the merchants and children who would hide him away, sneak him through a back door, or create a distraction when his escorts neared. He hadn’t meant to make a spectacle of himself, as that brought more questions and speculation, but he had to admit that it was fun to entertain the people by sending the soldiers on a wild goose chase.

When he was ready to return to the compound, he would come up with some story or other to explain away how he had lost them so many times. This feigned ignorance never earned him brownie points with the knights, but his antics provided them an opportunity to hone their skills, or that’s what he liked to tell them in response.

Stiles was contemplating his story today as he looked at a prime cut of deer when he heard a child cry out. He spun to see a girl no older than ten surrounded by two knights a couple of booths down. One of whom was holding her at sword point while the other rifled through her basket, throwing fruits and bread onto the cobblestones. Stiles had no trouble pushing his way through to her. The market patrons and merchants were all turning a blind eye to her struggles.

“What is the meaning of this,” Stiles asked, pushing his way between the child and the blade.

“It is no concern of yours,” the knight with the sword said, brandishing it at him threateningly.

Stiles felt fear thrum through his veins at the threat, but held his ground even as the knight tried to force him back with sword tip. He could feel the terrified eyes of the child, who'd fallen to her knees, and everyone in the street watching him.

He did not show his fear as he said cuttingly, “You're Derek’s men alright, attack first and talk later.”

“Do not speak of the King in that tongue,” the knight rifling through the basket snapped, dropping it in favor of placing a hand on the handle of his own blade, “unless you want it cut out.”

“For what,” Stiles challenged, “Demanding to know, as is my right, why you’ve accosted a child in the marketplace?”

One of the knights who had been assigned to guard Stiles, looking haggard and worn, rushed up from behind and grabbed the wrist of the knight whose sword was pressed over Stiles's heart and shoved it away. The knight began whispering furiously to the pair and their eyes widened as they looked at Stiles with new eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry, Prince Stilinski,” the knight who'd been searching the basket cried out before she was done and bent at the knee before him.

Stiles tried to wave the knight back to a standing position before anyone noticed, a futile effort with the whole street watching with wrapped attention. To Stiles’s great chagrin, the other knight followed directly after adding, “Please forgive our brashness, your highness.”

Stiles glared at the three knights. He’d specifically said he’d wanted to be inconspicuous until the official announcement but they’d effectively ruined any hope he had of ever walking these streets in the guise of a normal citizen again. He sighed, agitated, and pulled the two to their feet by their dark capes. He wanted to shove them but he composed himself as he’d been taught.

“I trust you’ll conduct yourselves with more delicacy in the future,” Stiles all but snapped at them.

He turned to the girl cowering behind him. “I’m so sorry, your grace,” she said immediately, looking at the ground with tears in her eyes, “I hadn’t meant to run, but I panicked. I haven’t done anything wrong, I swear.”

Stiles surveyed her for a second but she radiated honesty. He glanced at one of the merchants whose bread had once sat in the girl's basket and was now strewn across the cobblestones. The baker dropped his eyes almost immediately after meeting them but nodded at him all the same, confirming the girl’s innocence.

Satisfied, Stiles put his hand on her shoulder so she’d look at him as he said gently, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid now. You're a lady after all, you should always hold your head high.”

He helped her pick up her belongings and purchases, ignoring the scandalized looks of the knights and the whispers of the people around them. He ushered her off, slipping a gold piece in amongst her bread without notice. She thanked him with a watery return of his smile before rushing off, the crowd parting before her.

The second knight assigned to escort him arrived and they insisted that he return to his quarters with ugly looks of annoyance at having been given the run around all day. Stiles was too drained to argue with them.

Word of his protecting the child spread like wild fire. Before evening settled in, it seemed that everyone in the Hale territory had heard it in some form or other. The servants looked at him longer than they should and his foolish bravery seemed to have begrudgingly earned the knight’s respect. Their silent suspicion had turned to acknowledging nods as he passed them and some even stopped to talk to him. It was strange, he felt like he’d broken some ice that lay over the people. It wasn’t that they were any less guarded, but they were more openly curious about him now.

It was a relief, to say the least. Being surrounded by such cold distance from every other living being had been hard on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out on Tumblr [here](http://alexdoesthings.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

Derek had handpicked his three most trusted betas soon after becoming alpha, plucked them from miserable lives and gave them power and purpose. Boyd's size lent him an imposing demeanor when he needed it, but he was no bully. Erica was hot headed but reliable. Isaac would make a good addition to the group once more when he'd finished training in the north. He'd requested that Derek allow him to go so he could become a better soldier and remove himself from his past. Though he wasn't scared to shed blood and get into the thick of things for his comrades, despite all he'd been through he still had a good heart.

All three of them had wanted to belong so desperately, to be cared about and accepted, and Derek had given them that. Sometimes he wondered if he was too hasty in turning them, without a pack and lost himself, but training them and watching them learn to trust each other and smile easily made him push his doubts aside.

He was trying to get better at going to them for advice, but it was always a struggle. He felt weak asking for help and that was not something he enjoyed feeling. This, however, was not a matter that he could decide alone.

The morning before he was to announce his betrothal, he gathered the two in the planning room around the long table as though they were going to war and wanted their opinion on formations. It felt strangely similar to Derek, though they were perfectly relaxed as though they'd been waiting for this. Boyd had propped himself up against the wall comfortably beside Erica, who was sitting on the end of the table fiddling idly with a lock of hair.

“What do you think of Stiles,” Derek asked them.

“He’s won the hearts of the people,” Boyd said with a shrug.

“There’s a rumor he might have won the heart of the King as well,” Erica said with a sweetly poisonous smile.

"Where did you hear that," Derek asked, cooly, not giving anything away.

"There may have been a red eyed wolf in the garden the other night," she said cryptically, though Derek knew exactly what she was talking about.

Derek narrowed his eyes at her and glared her down until she turned her eyes away. Boyd tried hard to hide his smirk, but it broke through for a few seconds in Derek's periphery. He turned his glare to Boyd but he'd already looked away.

"I didn't call you here to ask after gossip, but since you have so much time on your hands, perhaps you should take a battlements patrol tonight," Derek said with a smile that took a hard left at playful and ran straight into dangerous. He had not forced either of them to take that particularly dull patrol in years.

He ignored their exchange of knowing glances and ran an agitated hand across the hilt of his sword as his thoughts returned to the topic at hand.

"Is this the right choice," Derek asked them quietly, his voice tired and uncertain.

"What other choice do you have," Boyd asked with a shrug.

Derek stared hard at the wood grain of the table as though that would give him answers, but he said nothing. They all knew the answer.

"It's a lot better than what you could be doing," Erica pointed out, "We can't continue as we have been and neither can they."

Boyd nodded his agreement to this sentiment. Derek's shoulders relaxed slightly, but it was more of an accepted defeat than anything else.

Boyd put a hand on his shoulder and Derek glanced reluctantly at his understanding gaze. "He's not Kate," he said, soft and perceptive as always.

Derek had to look away at that, his fists clenching on reflex. Erica moved closer and added her own bit as she said, "He's right. You can't keep doubting your judgement because you made a mistake."

"I didn't just 'make a mistake'," Derek ground the words bergen his teeth bitterly, "I got my family killed, I almost lost our lands, and-"

"Hey," Boyd interrupted firmly, giving his shoulder a firm, chastising squeeze.

The red Derek hadn't realized was glowing in his eyes faded as he glanced at them. There was a bitter smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He wondered, as he sometimes did, if they would look at him with such certainty as a leader if they had truly known him then.

"One bad crop doesn't spoil a whole harvest," Erica pointed out, putting her hand on his other shoulder, "And you've come so far since we first met. I trust your judgment; I'd follow you into anything, Derek."

Derek searched her face for a moment and found nothing but steadfast loyalty in every line. He glanced at Boyd who mirrored the look perfectly. Something inside Derek that always felt like broken glass in an open wound became quiet and calm under their belief.

He nodded to each of them, letting the moment last just a little longer. Then he straightened and their alpha returned to his usual, stern, cold demeanor. They bent their heads in respect automatically.

"We're hunting tonight," he said decisively. Smiles burst into their faces and an excited anticipation touched the air. "Tomorrow I'll put you on patrol," Derek continued and Erica's face devolved into good natured indignance.

"I take back everything I said," she pronounced, "You're the worst alpha I've ever had."

Derek only smirked at her, self satisfied, before walking out the door to return to his preparations.


	8. Chapter 8

Though Stiles had his speech memorized well enough to do it in his sleep, he was still nervous. It had been one thing on paper, but this announcement would make their engagement real.

He kept running through all the reasons he was doing this in his head, but they were sounding as hollow as the echo of his footsteps in the corridor. He was perfectly willing to give everything for his father and his people, but he couldn't shake the thought that this distant emotional thorn wall was all his relationship with Derek would ever be.

Stiles paused as he caught sight of his distorted reflection in a copper plate on the wall. He straightened his crown for what felt like the hundredth time. The golden headpiece had supposedly been resized, but the man who had done the work seemed to have a personal grudge against Stiles and hadn’t done a proper job.

Stiles had known this at the time but neglected to tell the king as he wasn’t sure he wanted whatever grievance he'd committed to reach his father’s ears. Of all the things he had been expecting to go wrong during the announcement of their betrothal, this particular wardrobe malfunction had not been on his mind.

“Stop messing with it,” a stern voice beside him commanded.

Stiles jumped at the proximity of the voice and straightened to see Derek standing there. He hadn’t even heard him approach.

It was kind of a comfort to see that Derek was about as at home in his formal royal clothes as Stiles felt in his. There was a scowl on his face that suggested he would rather have his teeth removed than smile in the midnight blue and rich purple outfit.

Though they were more minimal than Stiles had seen in other courts, Derek’s clothes were intricate, each piece so carefully crafted and detailed that it was truly a thing to behold. Even his boots were beautifully filigreed, a stark contrast to the polished black of his usual pair. Still, he looked trapped and agitated by the close fitting fabric.

The only part he seemed to like was the ceremonial sword at his belt, the handle a stylized wolf’s head. His hand rested near it and his thumb skated over the muzzle absently.

“It’s not sitting right on my head,” Stiles answered tersely, his tongue nerve sharpened.

Derek’s eyes swept over the minimal band of gold with its jewels set at intervals. He took a step closer and raised his hands. Stiles, already on edge, threw up his hands up defensively and shifted his weight back. Derek gave him an impatient look as Stiles realized a second too late that the gesture was entirely non-threatening . He tried to pass off the moment casually and submitted to the action as Derek reached for his head again. He pulled the crown off with both hands more gently than Stiles expected and set it on the little table under the copper plate. Then he started mussing Stiles's hair.

“What do you think you’re doing,” Stiles cried out, grabbing Derek’s wrists. An attendant with a wicked look in their eye had all but held him down for the better part of an hour to do his hair just right.

Derek freed his hands easily and continued his work without bothering to glance at Stiles as he explained, “This will hold it better.”

Not really believing this would work but accepting the damage was already done, Stiles let Derek continue grudgingly.

His eyes wandered up Derek’s head to his crown. It was a large, heavy steel ring topped with the Hale triskele set at intervals around the circle, each with red, gold, and blue gems set into the center of their own spiral. It was topped with a layer of interlocking gold branches that bled down into the steel, so it almost looked like flames around the triskeles. The irony of it was almost too sad and Stiles put into the back of his mind to propose some alternation in the design or perhaps a new crown be made.

Derek placed Stiles's crown back on his head, settling it among his mussed hair. Stiles turned back to the copper plate and tilted his head from one side to the other. It did not shift and he straightened, turning to Derek with a relieved smile playing across his lips. Derek had not moved and Stiles suddenly realized he was rather close.

He took a modest step back as he said, “That’s better, thanks.”

Derek’s eyes cut across him at the increased distance, which Stiles didn’t know how to interpret. Derek gave him an acknowledging nod all the same that effectively ended conversation.

“We should go,” Derek said after a moment of awkward silence.

 Stiles followed after him, his stomach twisting with nerves and his head buzzing, confused thoughts agitated into motion by the look Derek had given him.

The balcony on the lower ramparts that had been chosen for the occasion looked out onto a field packed with spectators. Most of the towns within a day’s ride seemed to have showed up to hear the King’s announcement. Stiles stopped just outside the doorway to await his introduction as Derek walked to the railing and stood tall and impressive before his subjects, greeting them in the standard fashion.

“I have someone very important to introduce,” Derek cut to the chase immediately, his voice ringing over the curious babble as he waved Stiles forward. As Stiles drew level with Derek and the crowd went silent, watching the pair of them with rapt attention, he continued, “This is the soon to be King of the house of Stilinski, third of his name, and my betrothed.”

The sudden statement caught everyone off guard, including Stiles. He’d expected more frill to the speech and the word betrothed sounded oddly on the air to him. The crowd erupted in a chaos of sound as the people all started talking at once, shocked. Derek waited a moment for them to quiet, patient and stoic, then put up a hand to silence them. Most obeyed, though there was an underlying rumble still circulating through them. Stiles glanced at Derek out of the corner of his eye and couldn’t decide if this blunt pronouncement was a genius strategy or madness.

Stiles heard nothing that was said after that. Derek had a few words more before turning to him and nodding to indicate it was his turn to address the assembly below, but Stiles could not have said what if his life depended on it. His head seemed to have filled with a strange buzzing and even his own words were just a murmur in the background.

Stiles's speech was warmly received, though nothing like that of Derek's reception, of course. Through the entirety, however, his attention was focused on the man beside him, who was watching him with wrapped attention.

To Stiles's great relief, Derek called a few final words and they retreated to a wave of roaring applause. The noise of the crowd followed them into the hall, echoing dizzyingly. Stiles had to take a moment as he rounded the corner at a fast clip to lean heavily into the wall and breathe.

He attempted to straighten himself as he heard Derek's echoing steps behind him round the corner as well. Their eyes met and Derek stopped walking. He assessed Stiles for a moment as Stiles stood more dignified and challenged him to comment.

"Your speech was very well done," Derek said neutrally after a moment of silence, "'Let us all show that we are not bound by the tragedies of our past, but the hope for our future'.”

Stiles had to take a second to realize that Derek had quoted him exactly word for word. It took longer to process that he'd just been given a compliment.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles strode through the halls to meet his guard escort, trying to keep his nerves under control. It was to be his first visit to the market since their announcement and it would be his last before the binding ceremony. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little excited, but his feet drug. They had received him warmly enough as a foreign prince, but this would tell him how the Hale people would take him as their future King, one of two.

Incidentally, the two guards had been his escorts to market on several other occasions, but they seemed much more willing this time given the non-secretive nature of their visit. They had still refused to agree to come the day before until he'd promised them he would not pull any of his usual tricks.

He would technically keep his word too, but that wasn’t to say that he might not be swept away by the crowd and unavoidably detained by business. Their ire from previous separations had been truly something. If looks could kill, he and the whole market would have suffered a thousand deaths as he was marched back between them. He was certain they would not disappoint this time around.

As though summoned by these thoughts of mischief, Stiles heard his name being called sharply from the end of the hall. He turned to see Derek marching toward him with a scowl adorning his face.

Derek was, as usual, dressed in his high ranking military uniform, his long black cape decorated in red with the symbol of his house flowed grandly behind him. After seeing him in formal wear, Stiles now realized he rarely saw Derek wearing any symbols of his royalty. His clothes were adorned in red and the Triskele was prominent, but his crown gathered dust in its casing and he wore no other jewels.

Stiles did not have long to wonder at this though as Derek reached him, his temper raging just under the surface.

"You can't keep ditching your escort whenever it pleases you," Derek said, sternly.

It seemed someone had finally told Derek of his exploits. Stiles held his ground and met Derek's underlying fury with a political neutrality he knew would agitate him more. He felt perfectly justified in his actions, both in leaving his guard floundering through the market to find him and in annoying Derek further as this was the first time Derek had personally sought him out for anything not directly involving the joining of their territories.

Stiles considered continuing the usual line that he had nothing to do with his guard losing him in a crowd, but instead he opted to say, coolly, "If your soldiers were more subtle about their duty, perhaps I wouldn't feel the need."

"They are there to protect you," Derek said through gritted teeth like Stiles did not grasp the concept.

"I told you before, I don't need their protection," Stiles shot back, stubbornly.

"Now that we've made the official announcement, there's a greater chance that you'll come to harm. While you're in my lands it is my job to keep you-" Stiles was tired of being patronized and his voice echoed down the long hall as he interrupted, "Then maybe you should personally see to it that I don't come by any harm."

Derek was pulled up short by the abrupt request. He blinked at Stiles several times like he thought his betrothed might suddenly sprout a new limb.

"What," he asked, like he hadn't heard, or hadn't heard correctly.

"If you want to keep an eye on me, no better way than do it yourself," Stiles reasoned smoothly.

Derek's jaw worked for a few seconds like he was going to say something. He couldn’t seem to come up with a response and shut his mouth tight with a furrowed brow. Stiles would have found it hilarious were he not trying to accomplish something here.

“Come on,” Stiles urged, trying to capitalize on Derek's silence, “How long has it been since any of them have seen you away from the battle field?”

Derek glared him down for a moment before looking away and Stiles knew he had won this round.


	10. Chapter 10

Most of the merchants by now knew Stiles on sight and greeted him jovially. Derek walking beside him was a different matter. Many of his people had not seen their King outside of official business in years. Passersby stopped with wide eyes and bowed low before the pair. Stiles accepted the gesture gracefully in Derek’s place and greeted them warmly in his usual fashion.

Derek had become unaccustomed to such casual meetings with anyone, buried as he was in the running of his army and his territory. His movements were stiff and his speech was overly formal. The people took it in stride, however. For all that Derek’s rule had been a cold one, he was still the son of their beloved Talia and his continued diligence in keeping her ideals alive meant they were well protected and so rarely went hungry.

Stiles watched in mild fascination as the love and devotion from his subjects washed over Derek and he began to relax. As a good King should be, Derek was playful with the children, straightforward with the men, and deferential to the women. Stiles even caught the rare smile playing across Derek’s face and the softening of his eyes as he spoke with them.

However, even with the excitement of having their King among them, Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off in the market that day. At first he assumed it was merely underlying opposition to their impending union. Two Kings, after all, was not a proposition that was looking on kindly by many. Though there were successful cases, most of these unions had ended in horrible bloodshed and the eventual demise of their territory as one King made a power play against the other. Though they did run across some uncertainty among the crowd and the occasional dirty look from a doorway, this kind of underlying unease felt different from the disquiet crawling up his neck.

He had become attuned to the ebb and flow of these people and something about the quick steps and darting eyes was putting him on edge. Then he noticed that the children were not playing outside the bakery as they usually did. Those children who were out were tangled in the legs of parents and elder siblings. He caught the eye of one of the metal smiths at her booth who was staring at him intently. She glanced meaningfully into the crowd then back at him. He followed her line of sight to the best of his ability and found nothing out of the ordinary. The people’s paranoia was creeping under his skin though and that particular section of the market did seem to be unusually subdued.

“Look out,” the warning had not even finished leaving Derek’s mouth before he had grabbed Stiles with one hand and had drawn his sword with the other.

The loud clash of metal rang through the street as Derek met the attacker’s blow. Surprised and fearful shouts carried around the market and the patrons and merchants near them suddenly vanished like morning dew before the noonday sun. Stiles regained his balance from being yanked out of the path of the oncoming blade and drew his own sword. It was familiar in his hand from hours of training, but he had not used it in true battle for many years.

Their attacker cried out and Stiles glanced over to see a large cut spurting blood from his sword arm as the man backed away from Derek, clutching at it. He was wearing a nondescript black robe that covered his face from view.

A short, incoherent shout of warning from a stall behind him gave Stiles the second he needed to raise his blade and spin toward a new attacker. He parried the blow and two more before he could get in a cut of his own. The man blocked the first strike and came in for another, but Stiles ducked under it and cut into his leg. The man hit the ground with a grunt and Stiles brought the pommel of his sword down on his head. The man lay still, knocked out cold.

He didn’t linger to watch his handiwork. There were more of them emerging from seemingly nowhere, ten at least. Trapped in the street, Derek and Stiles fell back to back as though they’d been doing this for years.

“We can’t fight them all, not here,” Derek said, tense and calculating.

“Where are those guards you wanted me not to lose,” Stiles asked sardonically, knowing full well Derek had sent them off elsewhere.

Derek grumbled a noncommittal answer as he met a new attacker at sword point. Stiles barely had time to open his mouth for a reply when a shout of "For our Kings!" caught his attention. Three of the merchants had jumped from between their booths and surprised a group of the hooded men with ropes. Stiles stared in shock a moment before a horribly spiked morning star came flying at him. He reached back instinctively and pulled Derek down with him as the heavy weapon passed over their heads. Before the man could stop his momentum and swing again, a cauldron flew from the stall beside them and smashed into him. He fell, his face a bloody mess held at a strange angle, but the cauldron landed beside him unharmed. Stiles shot a grateful smile at the furious faced merchant who was holding a pot from the collection of wares, ready to strike again. He made a note to buy the cauldron later.

Seemingly spurred by the merchants’ bravery, more people were joining the fray with cleavers, axes, and all manner of improvised weapons. The scuffle became chaotic, the shouting and sounds of battle with crude weapons and swords an overwhelming din. Stiles glanced at Derek whose expression was a mixture of amazement and concern as his eyes swept the scene. Derek caught his eye and the two nodded agreement at each like they had discussed this beforehand. Determined, they stood as one before heading in opposite directions to aid their impromptu defenders.

The hooded men were becoming overwhelmed as more of the civilians poured between the stalls and their guard finally arrived on the scene. Then everything went eerily quiet as a child screamed out in terror. Stiles turned slowly to his left. A bubble of space seemed to have open around him and the man standing a few feet from him in his black robes, face covered but for his mouth, blood dripping down his chin. In one hand he clutched a child to his chest and in the other he held a sword to his trembling, wide eyed victim.

“Surrender yourself,” the man commanded Stiles, his cowardly threat clear as he pressed the blade closer to the child’s neck.

Stiles did not hesitate to drop his sword and raise his hands. The man leered triumphantly at him and took several steps closer to get in range, missing completely the motion as Stiles pulled a knife from his sleeve. He wasn’t certain of his aim, but he drew his arm across his body all the same to throw the knife, knowing he only really had one chance as the man raised his weapon to strike Stiles.

Neither of them got the chance to strike. Between one blink and the next, a flash of red on black crossed his vision. Before Stiles could truly process what had happened, a clang of metal proceeded a wet ripping sound and the man collapsed to the ground. His sword skidded across the hard packed earth away from them and blood shot from the horrifically gaping wound in his throat. Derek stood over him with the child clutched to his chest, terrified and shaking badly but unharmed.

Stiles blinked hard like that might reorient the world once more. The scene before him remained the same, however. A woman ran over to them, shouting the name of the child and thanking Derek with tears in her eyes. Stiles was not watching them though. His eyes were glued to the man writhing on the ground, his eyes rolled up in his head, his throat open to the sky above, and a pool of blood growing around him. Stiles stepped closer in horrified fascination. That was not a wound that could be made by a blade, too ragged, wide, and uneven.

Stiles heard his name numbly through his racing thoughts and turned his head to see Derek watching him intently. He had picked up Stiles’s sword with one hand, the other buried in his cloak. Stiles could just see Derek’s sword over his shoulder, lying abandoned on the ground a great distance away. He was certain Derek had not been near him during that last part of the battle, at least not near enough to help.

“We should return,” Derek continued, a meaningful emphasis in his words as he held the hilt out to be grabbed. Stiles simply nodded, taking his sword back and sheathing it thoughtlessly as he went over and over the impossible scene in his head.


	11. Chapter 11

When Stiles had traveled into Hale territory, it had been a relatively quick journey, but the return trip to the Stilinski castle, where the ceremony was to be held, took the better part of a week with their lumbering caravan. Derek, with all his years of military training working against the idea, did not like to move this slowly out in the open with such an obvious target and his mood dampened the otherwise festive caravan.

The offer had been made several times, with growing exasperation, that the soon to be married men arrive early with a small host and let Derek’s court handle the caravan. This was traditionally how it was meant to work, the man would be sequestered and prepared for the ceremony while his soon to be wife and the other ladies oversaw the wedding preparations and attended to any matters of state that arose.

Derek had stubbornly shot down every offer haughtily and Stiles was certainly not leaving without him. It was speculated that Derek felt Stiles had done so much of the work on the drawing up of their contract that he needed to pick up the slack somewhere and the caravan was, inconveniently, what he'd chosen. Stiles suspected it had more to do with their deciding to not to show the attack in the market had concerned them.

They had captured several of the hooded men but could get no useful information from them as to who hired them. Stiles's list of suspects was longer than he'd have liked. Word of his escapades in the market would have spread far, especially after their announcement, and there was no better time to take him out than in the crowded market before he and Derek could properly unite their lands. His death in Derek's territory would have likely thrown both the Hale and Stilinski territories into a grim war with their neighbors, who had been getting steadily bolder and more aggressive. Any of them might have sent assassins after him.

This was not the first attempt on his life since his mother's death though and it did not concern him nearly as much as Derek's miraculous save. He'd gone over the scenario in his head more times than he cared to think about and he wanted to ask Derek about it, but he had yet to actually talk to Derek on the journey.

Not for lack of trying though. Every time he got anywhere within speaking distance of Derek, there always seemed to be something calling his betrothed’s attention elsewhere. It was frustrating, but he wasn’t without his own distractions in the company of Derek’s court.

Much of the previous Hale court had fled the land or perished during the fire and subsequent battles that claimed the family. Those who remained were an odd assortment of retainers, the very distantly related, and high ranking servants, all of whom seemed, currently or previously, to hold a position in the military. The spoiled and idle richness that was found in most courts was a small minority mindset in the Hale court. Still, they enjoyed a celebration as much as any court Stiles had known and were eager to get close to him and into his good graces. Stiles was used to this sort of pandering and skulduggery and was almost glad for the distraction, but as the journey wore on, he grew tired of it.

When they stopped less than a day's ride from their destination at a stream to water the horses and look presentable, Stiles moved away from the courtiers and surveyed the castle. It wasn't near as grand as the castles of the far eastern territory, by any stretch of the imagination, nor quite as large as the Hale castle in its day. It was, however, the most welcoming of any castle Stiles had ever known. He felt an odd pang of homesickness he had not expected as his eyes drifted over the high windows glittering in the midday sun like polished gems set into the creamy stone walls. The place had an air that called to mind carpeted halls and intimate fires. He was eager to return and, especially, to see his father again.

To take his mind from it, he glanced around to find what entertainment there always lay in the courtiers. They were all milled about pretending not to ogle the castle in the near distance. Stiles even spotted Derek completely abandoning his interest in his horse to gaze across at it. Erica and Boyd, his usually shadows, seemed to be engaged in business elsewhere and Derek seemed to be mostly alone. Stiles decided he might as well try again to engage him in conversation.

He began to make his way over, but his progress was impeded as a man in the soft brown robes of an animal healer stopped him with a friendly smile.

“We’ve yet to meet, Prince Stilinski,” he said cordially, “My name is Alan Deaton.”

Stiles blinked at him, certain he had not seen him before among the caravan. Deaton’s smile was a warm but mysterious thing and Stiles was not certain he trusted it. He fell back on his training however, and greeted him politely as he said, “Pleasant to make your acquaintance.”

“I won’t take much of your time,” Deaton said, with a glance over at Derek, “but I have a message from Scott, if you would like to receive it.”

That immediately caught Stiles’s attention and he forgot his annoyance with the interruption. He hadn’t heard from Scott since he left for the north. He had known they would not be allowed communications, as the training was meant to be a secret and messengers riding back and forth between them would not have been terribly subtle, but it did not stop him from missing his friend terribly and wanting to write to him anyway.

“Of course,” he said, putting on a commanding, aloof air as his father had taught him to adopt.

“First, he says that the fly is in the cantaloupe,” Deaton repeated smoothly the code that Stiles and Scott had come up with in remembrance of a simple, but fantastic prank they had pulled on one of Stiles’s more obnoxious aunts. The message could be from no one else. When Stiles flashed him the accompanying double finger cross and nodded his head in understanding, Deaton continued with the simple message, “He says he will return as the year begins a new and he is eager to serve his new king.”

Stiles fought between disappointment that there was not more and happiness at hearing that his friend would be returning. They would have much to discuss.

He opened his mouth to thank Deaton, but the man was speaking again, “I also thought I would present you with a small token.”

Stiles was taken aback and wary. He did not usually accept gifts from strangers himself as this was a quick way for a noble to find their death. However, his curiosity got the better of him as the man pulled a tiny vial from his sleeve. A fine, grey ash filled it to the stopper.

“Keep this on you at all times, you may... find it useful,” Deaton explained cryptically as he placed the vial in Stiles’s palm.

Stiles glanced down at the gift with a creased brow. The label read Mountain Ash in large, carefully drawn black letters. He had read about it during his research on werewolves, but had not come into contact with the substance in his own lands to test if it indeed held the protection and barricading properties the books suggested. His eyes shot back up to Deaton, but the man was already walking away, waving a casual good bye to him.

“Wait a second,” Stiles called after him, giving chase. Just then, however, Derek commanded them into motion once more and Deaton melted into the chaos of the caravan.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on Tumblr [here](http://alexdoesthings.tumblr.com/)


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